


Coming & Going

by acertainheight



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 18:18:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1314517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acertainheight/pseuds/acertainheight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke knows plenty of healers, but she's willing to suffer a scar or two if it means an extra hour with Isabela.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming & Going

“By the Maker, Hawke.”

The declaration rang out as clear and loud and as perturbed as always, and Hawke, shutting the door of the estate behind her, looked up to see Isabela perched on the second-floor railing. Though she wanted to smile, to immediately dash up the stairs—as best she could manage with her bloodied leg—she knew better than to dare. They had rules. Unspoken, but rules nonetheless. And so Hawke bit back the delight that came with the sight of her, sighed, leaned against the door, and stared up at the pirate with a cocked brow.

“Should I be worried about how easy it is for someone to wander into my home?”

“Nonsense. No one else in this city is near competent enough. You only have my visits to look forward to.” Her legs swung lightly, casually, over the banister; it half made Hawke dizzy just to look at her, though she was more focused on the bare legs than the height they swung from.

Hawke grinned as best as she was able through her exhaustion, eyeing the empty bottle visible on the ground behind Isabela. “I'd mind the breaking and entering less if you'd stop drinking all my wine when I'm not around.”

“Oh, I'm doing you a service. Most of it is swill.” Isabela started to smile and then turned it into a scowl instead, crossing her legs at the ankle, and tilting her head as she looked down at Hawke. “Now you've distracted me and I can't remember what I was about to say.”

“'By the Maker, Hawke,'” she echoed in a nearly-decent imitation of the pirate.

“Ah! By the Maker, Hawke, I was saying, have you ever considered spending one day without letting someone take a sword to you? It's embarrassing for me when you go traipsing through the city looking like—” She waved a hand. “—that.”

Hawke looked down at herself, at the blood that had dried on her tunic (more of her own than she would have liked), at the dirt smeared where she had taken an unlucky fall, at the gash in her trousers. She looked back up to Isabela. “It was actually an axe. A very big axe.”

“What, and your very big sword wasn't a match for it? I don't want to associate myself with the sort of woman who lets an idiot with an axe knock her about. I have an image to keep up.” She paused, surveying Hawke from head to toe. “Are you injured or just foolish-looking?”

“Both, I suppose,” Hawke sighed. She pushed herself up from the door, summoning all the energy she had left, and took a step across the room. She imagined that if she returned to the estate with one leg lopped off, Isabela would still be sitting there on the banister waiting for her to come crawling up. It had never been the other way around. Isabela never came to her.

Isabela neatly slipped from the railing back to the ground. She leaned on it, watching Hawke progress up the stairs. “At least the former is a problem that can be fixed.”

“Do you ever,” Hawke wondered, reaching the top of the steps, “consider pausing in your mockery of me?” She was unsteady, holding the rail for balance, but Isabela curled a beckoning finger.

“Not for a moment.” Her eyes sparkled, not a trace of worry in them, and when Hawke finally stepped within reach, Isabela reached out and patted her cheek. “Surprised by that?”

“Not for a moment.” Hawke stumbled, then, more than a little purposefully falling into Isabela's waiting arms, into the promise of what came next.

Isabela held Hawke upright, fingers digging into her waist. Her voice dropped, rougher now, though that persistent teasing lilt still lingered. “Come on, sweet thing, let's get you out of those filthy clothes.”

Hawke acquiesced. She always did. This part was easy, the way they would stumble back to the bedroom—the way Isabela would shove Hawke down on the bed, strip her of her clothes, and bind any wounds with a practiced tenderness that would then be set aside—the way their bodies met, moving in a fierce and lovely harmony that was all their own—the way Isabela would taste of salt and wine and cinnamon, of fire and laughter, of everyone other than Hawke that she had kissed—and the way Hawke would briefly, briefly, forget about that last point, once she was wrapped around Isabela and crying her name.

It was the part that came after that was so hard.

Not at first, of course. At first there was only silence. Hawke would lay there, watching Isabela, both of them breathing heavily, their chests rising and falling in sync. In those precious moments, Isabela still filled Hawke's senses, all she could see, smell, feel, all she could still taste on her lips. As long as Isabela didn't move, didn't look over at Hawke, it was easy to pretend that this was permanent. She could forget who they were. It was only a few seconds, but it was almost enough.

And then Isabela would turn to Hawke, smile that disarming smile, and it would be over, and they would again be Hawke and Isabela.

“Enjoyable as always, Hawke, thank you for your services.” This time, she propped herself up on one elbow, patting Hawke on the shoulder, both of them laughing as Hawke tried to swat her hand away.

“It's going to scar, you know. They always scar when I let you play healer instead of Anders.”

“Mm, I know.” Isabela's fingers curled against Hawke's stomach, thumb tracing one of the scars that was already there. “But I'm much more fun, and everyone loves a woman with scars.”

Hawke chuckled. “Anders might be fun too. Have you ever fucked a mage?”

Isabela's hand froze for just an instant before she returned to her idle caress. “It's rather underwhelming, as a matter of fact. Don't bother. No, you're better off with me, scars and all.”

“Why, Isabela! That sounded nearly possessive of you.”

“Never. I'm only watching out for you. You deserve the finest care available.” She grinned and tapped Hawke's nose. “Fuck him if you'd like, but I'll be here working my way through your wine and waiting for you until you've realized your mistake.”

Hawke knocked her hand away again, raising a brow. “Waiting for me? That's hard to imagine. You couldn't find entertainment elsewhere?”

“Perhaps, but your house has wine. Maybe I'll bring my countless hordes of lovers with me the next time I break in.”

“As long as they leave their boots by the door.”

It was a weak joke, but Isabela rewarded it with a laugh, and Hawke closed her eyes, soaking in the sweet sound, counting the seconds. Once it faded to silence, their time had run out. Hawke pushed herself upright as Isabela rose, trying not to grimace at a jolt of pain in her leg. She watched the pirate slip out of bed, stretch—she still found it hard to breathe sometimes looking at Isabela, even after all these months—and reach for her crumpled clothes. “Leaving already?”

Isabela carefully ran her hands through her tangled hair, soft dark curls tumbling to her shoulders, before retying her scarf about her head. “I'm a very busy woman.”

“Let's go for another round.” Hawke's leg burnt, her head ached, but anything, anything to keep her here an instant longer.

“Hawke, I can't believe I'm saying this, but I don't have the time.”

“Don't tell me the great Captain Isabela can't handle—” Hawke laughed as Isabela paused in her dressing and spun back around.

Isabela's eyes danced with wicked delight and a hint of something else as she leaned over the bed, shirt undone and a hand on either side of Hawke. Her voice dropped. “I can _handle_ you. But I'm going to make you wait.” She lingered for a moment, fixing Hawke with a hungry smile, and then she pushed herself back up. “Until then, well, I suppose you'll have to handle yourself.”

And that was that.

Hawke offered some sort of forgettable farewell, something that slipped off her tongue without a second thought as she watched Isabela retreat without even a glimpse back over her shoulder. There were never any extended farewells. She was always coming to Isabela, and Isabela was always walking away from her.

She drew a shuddering breath. She could still taste the salt of the sea on her lips.


End file.
